


To Hold; Perchance to Thaw

by Alina_writes



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Canon Typical Sarah Steel Parenting, Cursed Juno, Dragon Nureyev, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Love In The Form of Warmth, Nureyev Is Besotted In Every Way Shape And Species, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:43:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28937970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alina_writes/pseuds/Alina_writes
Summary: In her grief and despair and rage, Sarah looked at her son and said,I hope frost takes root in your bones.Vignettes from a world where a curse leaves you unable to feel warmth, a thief is both a man and a dragon, and love is sunlight on frostbitten hands.
Relationships: Benzaiten Steel & Juno Steel, Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel, Rita & Juno Steel
Comments: 11
Kudos: 102





	To Hold; Perchance to Thaw

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for Sarah Steel's dismal anger management, Juno's pre-S3 self-deprecating thoughts, and some mild THEIA BS, I suppose.

There is frost etched into Juno’s bones.

To understand how this came to be, we must first understand that words, intangible and fleeting as they are, hold power in this world. Words spoken with love become a protection; words spoken with greed become a summoning; as for words spoken with hatred... they become a curse.

To understand the shape of the curse on Juno, we must also understand this: Queen Sarah never meant for this to happen. Once, she had loved her twins more than anything else in the world. But she was angry. And that was all it took: words, spoken with anger.

Winter in Hyperion is tame thing compared to what other cities have. When Susanoo and Brahma get blankets of snow, Hyperion is drenched in thick sheets of rain. Snow is reserved for distant mountain peaks and bedtime stories for sleepy children, never in the plains where major crops are grown. In recorded history, it had snowed only once in Hyperion, and it was a bitter year of starvation, darkness, and death.

In her grief and despair and rage, Sarah looked at her (horrid beloved wretched treasured despicable) son, and said, _I hope frost takes root in your bones_.

(None of them understood the magnitude of what was done; not Sarah, who believed that her words wouldn’t take, like so many of her other words; not Benzaiten, who spent that night trying to hug a smile out of his twin; not Juno, who went to sleep clinging to Ben, dreaming of snowflakes drifting from the sky.)

At first it wasn’t obvious; Juno just needed some more fire and blankets in his room. The twins snuck Sasha and Mick into their room, built blanket forts, and took turns slaying imaginary dragons.

And then it began to worsen as he grew: by the time he was seventeen, the blazing summer sun felt like a suggestion of light on his cold, numb skin; fire could scorch his flesh but couldn’t warm his veins; his breath no longer fogged in the winter air. No matter what he did, his fingertips felt as if they were covered in frost.

Benten breathed sparks onto their joined hands and felt his twin’s hand remain cold. “Why isn’t this working?” He snapped at the royal sage. “Isn’t this what I learned magic for?”

“Curses laid by blood on blood are always tricky.” The sage explained. “Especially when this one seems to be drawing its strength from something more than itself.”

“What does that mean?” Benten turned to look at Juno. “Juno, what do they mean?”

Juno said nothing. Some days it seemed right that his hands didn’t leave foggy imprints on the glass of his bedroom windows.

(Then Benten fell, limp and lifeless, his finger pierced by a hidden needle meant for his twin. Juno watched his brother sleep through the years, shrouded in every healing spell the city could provide, and felt the last corner of his heart freeze over.)

Eighteen years after Prince Benzaiten fell into his cursed slumber, the dragon comes.

The people of Hyperion see the smoke rising from the east, the shadows of great wings against the sky. The older generation, the ones who still faintly remember the ravages of the last dragon attack, begin to clamour for the royals to _do something_.

King Regent Pereyra knows nothing about defending a city, but he does know a thing or two about offerings and bargains. One life for the lives of thousands; one bloodshed against the survival of an entire city. It would be a sad but fair trade.

They stake a young priestess out in the field near the eastern border and light a bonfire. The message is clear: _We have no riches for the taking. We offer up this life in exchange for our safety_.

When the dragon arrives, indigo and silver scales against green grass, he doesn’t find a pale and frightened young woman. Instead, a princess stands before him, a crossbow held in his steady hands, an empty stake behind him.

“Well, what have we here?” The dragon tilts his head, mesmerized by the glint in the princess’ eyes.

“I let her go,” says the princess, “she deserves better than to die out here on her own.”

“And what about you, brave princess?” Asks the dragon, settling down and wrapping his tail around his talons. Suddenly, he doesn’t want to intimidate this intriguing creature. “What made you decide to take the place of that doomed woman? You know that little weapon of yours cannot hurt me.”

The princess’ hands do not waver, but his lips pressed into a sharp, bitter line. “I did the math, Scale-face. It’s one life for the sake of thousands, and judging by the way the treat _me_ , you’d think a button on my dress is worth more than the lives of every serving staff. This seems like a pretty decent bargain.”

Something twinges within the dragon’s chest. “You would die for this city that would rather give up one of their own than to defend all of its people?”

“Just eat me already, damn it!” The princess snaps. “You want a nice hot meal, and I want my people safe, so just do it.”

The dragon looks at the princess, at his stern brows and defiant mouth, at his steady hands and immeasurably sad eyes. He makes a decision.

“No,” he says, willing his form to Change. “I don’t think I will.”

The princess stares, wide-eyed, at the man now stands in front of him. “Holy shit,” he says.

“I’m not here to claim a life,” says the man with the sharp teeth of a dragon. “And I certainly can’t bear destroying something as beautiful as yourself, your highness.”

That earns him an eye-roll and a scowl. “Then what do you want?”

He wants to say, “I want to take you far away from these people who don’t know your worth.”

He wants to say, “I want to show you life beyond the borders of this city.”

He wants to say, “I want to make you smile.”

He says, instead, “I need your help acquiring something within the vaults of Hyperion’s castle. In return, I will leave your city, and you’ll have my word that no dragons shall intrude upon this land as long as I live.”

The princess, steel in his spine, firelight in his eyes, lowers his crossbow. He takes a deep breath.

“What do you need?” He asks.

(For centuries, many have laboured to learn the names of dragons. Scholars puzzled over ancient scrolls, mages gazed into their silvered mirrors, mercenaries set up traps and looked to the sky. All of them knew the heart of this hunt: to know a dragon’s name is to hold complete dominion over a dragon’s soul.

“You may call me Nureyev,” says the man who had worn the form of a dragon, as they scale the wall of the castle. “Peter Nureyev, at your service, your highness.”

“Yeah, well, I’m Juno. You can stop with the whole ‘your highness’ shtick.” Juno grunts, hauling himself over the parapets.

He doesn’t see Nureyev’s eyes flashing gold when he gives him his name. He wouldn’t understand the significance of this offering until it is almost too late.)

This is how Juno remembers what it’s like to be warm.

The two of them are running through the corridors of the castle, Nureyev clutching the artifact he came for, Juno firing at Pereyra’s stooges. They turn a corner, and Juno’s clumsy feet stumble over an uneven patch of the stone floor.

Nureyev’s hand wraps around his left wrist, bare skin upon bare skin, and Juno _howls_.

“What did you just do to me?” He tears his hand away, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribcage. His wrist _burns_ as if Nureyev’s hand was a searing brand.

Nureyev’s brows furrow in confusion and concern. He raises his hands. “Dragon,” he points at himself. “Fire,” he points at his throat. “Heat,” he flexes his fine-boned hands. “Shall we continue on?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Juno grits his teeth and starts running again.

He hasn’t felt warmth such as this since he was four.

It feels like thawing, being with Nureyev.

In Brock Engstrom’s private suite, standing behind the man who calls himself Duke Rose, Juno accepts a drink and realizes that he can feel the coolness of the glass against his fingers.

The abrupt wakeup-call from an assassin and their hasty departure from the Oasis leave little room for self-reflection, but at some point during their escapade, Juno brushes an errant lock out of his face and feels heat radiating from both his face and his hand.

Under a desert sky, at the beginning of the End, they face the demon that has fully consumed the woman who once called herself Miasma. Nureyev’s fingers steal into the space between Juno’s. In spite of everything, Juno could almost believe he was never cold in his life.

When the End comes, however, Juno slams the door between them and hears the locks click into place. He can hear Nureyev slamming himself against the door, screaming with a voice halfway between human and dragon, but not even a dragon can tear down the Tomb of the Ancients, built and sealed with protective spells strong enough to withstand several apocalypses.

“Just think of me as the price, Nureyev,” he whispers through the door, shaking from the cold that seems all-encompassing now. “The price for a life of roaming the skies forever free.”

Because it’s selfish to want a dragon’s fire all to yourself, isn’t it? It’s cruel to chain down a creature so beautiful and free just so you can feel less cold. The least Juno can do for Nureyev is to save him from his own cruelty.

So Juno walks away, and shakes, and shakes.

The THEIA worms its way deep into his bones, its magic mingling with the frost lodged in there, and Juno feels just _fine._ The cold is no longer of any consequence, not compared to his duty to his city. He has lived a life devoid of warmth; he can continue on without it.

( _You don’t deserve to warm_ , the nastiest corner of his mind whispers, and it almost doesn’t sound like the THEIA’s voice.)

But then the Target (an insurgent a cursebreaker a tiny woman with snack dust on her hands how did he know about the dust _who is she_ ) grabs his hand and his skin lights up like a flower turning to the morning sun.

 _Rita Rita Rita Rita_ the warmth in his blood sings, as the last of Ramses’ curse begins to sputter and die.

The coldness in his bones does not disappear in a day, or a week, or a year. Like wounds, sometimes a curse cuts too deep for a soul to ever fully heal from it.

There are still mornings where Jet’s scalding coffee feels like nothing when Juno wraps his hands around the mug. Vespa would snipe at him for being a careless moron when he burns his mouth, and he would shoot back something petty that makes Nureyev chuckle into his own mug. Jet, sipping his equally scalding tea, would suggest that Juno simply be patient with liquid that was just being boiled. Over Rita’s chatter, Buddy would sigh and call for everyone’s attention as she lays out the day’s tasks.

There would be arguments, points and counterpoints, threats made with knives and quelled with placating hands, and Juno’s mug would be warm against his palm when he picks it back up.

Each of them burns differently, these people whom he has come to call his family.

Vespa is the temperature of a blade fresh out of the forge when they first met; like a blade, she cools down, in increments, gradually.

Buddy burns like a bonfire; if you know how to look, you can see at the base of the bonfire all she has fed to the flames to maintain their heat.

Jet is the warmth of cinders; deep within the ashes is a heat that can still scorch and destroy, but if you’re careful, you can keep things warm in there, tucked inside what’s left from the fire.

Rita will always be the sunlight of a surprisingly bright winter’s day; she will scald you just a tiny bit, if you’re not prepared.

(Nureyev touches his lips to Juno’s hand, and the frost thaws from his bones.)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was born out of a brain-explosion on a cold morning. Its production was later boosted by the incredibly kind and creative folks in the TPP Discord, among them Blue, North, Ser, Mary, Lex, Mog, and Bee. This fic would not have left the hectic attic of my brain if it weren't for their enthusiastic yelling. 
> 
> Leave a kudo if you enjoyed this fic, leave a comment if you want to yell at me for putting Juno through the _everything_ he goes through. Or if you want a more direct route to discuss some more world-building ideas I have for this world, head over to [my tumblr](https://botanycrewmember.tumblr.com) and shoot me a message!
> 
> Also, I still have some Thoughts about what happens to Benten after Juno leaves, as well as Nureyev's whole situation as a dragon on the run. Let me know if you want to see more of those, and I'll try my best to deliver!


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